


The Balancing Point

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-29
Updated: 2006-10-29
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: My tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...mostly Dean being hurt and angsty and stuff...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: The Balancing Point  
Characters/Pairing: Primarily Dean, some mention of Sam  
Rating: G, mostly angsty stuff  
Summary: My tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...mostly Dean being hurt and angsty and stuff...cause I'm feeling kinda that way today...  
  
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.  
  
  
  
He waits, pretending to work, fiddling around with tools and broken bits until long after dark, until even with the spot lights he couldn’t see, or pretend anymore. He listens, after he stops pretending, but it was quiet, so he drops his tools. On his way out of the yard, he stops, runs a hand over the trunk, over the damage that hadn’t been there before.  
  
The rage isn’t gone, only pushed back, locked up…hidden. Hidden behind green eyes that refused to cry. Hidden behind a forced grin or cocky smile. Hidden behind the need to hold everything together…to be strong.  
  
His body aches with the effort. Hiding has never been his strong suit. He’s the guy who busts in the front door, stands his ground. He could never have been considered the cautious one.  
  
He climbs the stairs wearily, listening for any sound that the other two men in the house were awake. He doesn’t think he could talk to either of them just then. The outburst in the yard had taken its toll…shown him how tired he was, how close to breaking…to letting it all spill out.  
  
Outside his brother’s door, he stops, listening, waiting. When no sound comes, he eases it open, standing in the doorway, breathing…just breathing and looking and breaking just a little more.   
  
Sam is asleep, his face still blushed with the emotion of earlier, his eyes rimmed in red, his eyelashes wet. His goddamn hair falls over his forehead and curles behind his ears. He watches as some dream comes, Sam’s eyes moving under heavy eyelids, tiny whimpers escaping his lips.  
  
There was a time he could hold his brother while he dreamed, ease him past the nightmares, quiet his pain. There was a time when just his presence was enough to calm Sam’s fear. Now…now he only made it worse, intensified by his own pain, his own fear.  
  
A single tear slips past his defenses, startling him as it reaches his lip. He wipes it away and moves to close the door before Sam’s whimpering forms a word. He freezes at the sound of his name, at the naked need of it, the raw ache. It is scarcely heard, yet it screams to him, echoing around inside of him.  
  
Sam turns, rolls to his side, one big hand hanging off the side of the bed. The blankets shift, exposing the long torso, and the jut of one bony hip. It had been a long time since he had really looked at his brother, realized how thin he’d become. There’s a bruise along his ribs on the left that he couldn’t remember seeing before.  
  
He moves into the room, slipping to his knees beside the bed. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d sat and watched his brother sleep…but it’s been a long time. Sam doesn’t sleep so well anymore. Lately, neither has he. He wonders if he’ll ever really sleep again.   
  
He clenches his jaw and sighs. He can’t tell Sam. Hell, he can’t admit half of it even to himself. The guilt alone is enough to crush him if he lets it. Twice someone else had died to keep him alive, and he knows he isn’t worth it. Knows he’ll never be worth it. How can he tell his baby brother to let him die? Let it be over.  
  
How can he tell Sam what their father did, and why? That he said goodbye. That he said goodbye to him, but couldn’t do the same for Sam? That he couldn’t face Sam and do what had to be done?  
  
He watches as Sam dreams, listening to the sounds and wondering if he would sound the same. He feels the tears building in tries to push them off. He has been in the middle for so long, the balancing point between Sam and Dad, Dad and Sam. But the balance was upset, tipped over, fallen off and all that was left was the push and pull of him and Sam, and the pressure of that was…nearly unbearable…unasked for, unwanted…too much.  
  
He closes his eyes and leans back against the bed, that one hand hanging nearly over his shoulder, the heat from the skin just reaching his face. It was almost like a touch…almost, but not quite, just like everything these last few days. Not quite. Not real. Not right.  
  
The house is silent but for Sam’s raspy breathing and tiny sounds, and if he let it the whole world could disappear into them. He stops pushing. This is the one place he can…not quite touching Sam, not quite with Sam…but still not alone. His tears are hot, silent and hot as they mark his face. He holds them that way, refuses to sob, to shake the bed and wake his brother, to let anyone know. He can’t cry alone, can’t break when there’s no one there to hold the pieces…but he can’t put that burden on Sam either.  
  
It leaves him cold when its done, and he huddles deeper into himself in search of the warmth that always was a part of him, the heat, the passion. Whatever was there is gone now, and the emptiness rings hollow and bare. He pulls himself to his feet, pulls the blanket up over Sam and nods once to the night air before leaving Sam to his dreams.  
  
It was easier to let Sam push and pull against him, to rage and grieve and scramble. That was what Sam did. What Dad did. Dean stood in the middle, balancing his family, holding the secrets, holding them together.


End file.
